


The Right Fit

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Nicknames, POV Greg Lestrade, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:55:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22692160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Greg's mind automatically decides on a nickname for everyone. Part of him hopes he'll find his soulmate by accident one day, saying the words that will make their soulmark pulse with recognition. It's never happened, but each nickname comes fairly easily to him.Except one.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 50
Kudos: 400
Collections: Mystrade Soulmates Week 2020





	The Right Fit

Greg often wondered if he was a product of his world, or if he’d be the kind of bloke who gave nicknames regardless of the soulmark thing. He’d always been fascinated by the idea. His parents’ marks were a source of great pride for each, and when Greg was small he actually thought their names were Sweetness and Dear Heart.

Sarah and Harry didn’t have the same ring.

One of Greg’s earliest memories was sitting on his mother’s lap, being soothed from some injury or other. She would let him run his small fingers over the soulmark running up her arm, the delicate script slowly pulsing bright with love.

“What will mine look like?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered quietly.

“Will mine be on my arm too?”

“Maybe,” she said. “Remember Papa’s is near his shoulder.”

“And will it look like this?”

“They’re all different, honey,” his mother said. “It won’t pulse until you hear it from the right person, remember?”

Greg hummed. He knew the answers already, but the familiar conversation was comforting.

“What if I don’t have a soulmark?” he asked, wanting to hear her say the words.

“Not everyone does,” she told him, “but that doesn’t mean you don’t have a soulmate.”

“But how will I know?” Greg asked. “If they don’t have a mark?”

She always kissed him at this point, the words pressed directly into his skin. “You’ll know, Greg. I promise, you’ll know.”

It became almost a game. Although it was rare, there were stories of people finding their soulmates early, before their soulmarks even appeared. Later, they explained how they felt drawn to each other, an assertion their families would support.

Greg desperately wanted to find his soulmate; he looked at everyone even remotely his age and pictured the perfect nickname for them. He’d try them out, on the slide or swings, walking down the street or standing in line for the bus. Some children stared at him, others assumed he had their name wrong and corrected him. One or two even cried, frightened by his overzealous efforts at conversation.

Needless to say, it didn’t work.

“You can’t force it,” his father would say. He’d sometimes let Greg sit on his lap, the top few buttons of his shirt open so Greg could see the word scrolling over his collarbone. “It’ll happen when it happens.”

Unlike his mother, Greg’s father only had that conversation with him once; he wasn’t one to be so patient with his son, and Greg never asked again. He still thought of nicknames for people, but he became far more careful how he approached them.

+++

Years later, Greg stared at his ribs, hardly able to believe it. He’d been trying to ignore the slowly developing black mark since it first appeared, impatient but a little worried about what it might say. The first frisson of excitement carried him through the days where the letters were maddeningly indistinct.

When he could finally make them out, it took days before he actually believed it. The letters darkened until there was no denying what they spelled. He ran his fingers over them, remembering the tenderness implicit in his parent’s, wondering what kind of person would use a word such as this as an endearment. Greg wasn’t even entirely sure what it meant – but surely it wasn’t affectionate. He looked up the meaning, but it didn’t help; there was no clue there leading him to a small town in which his soulmate surely resided.

By the time he’d graduated the police academy, the old habit had resurfaced. Greg was easy going, liked by most, and known as Nick for his habit of finding a unique nickname for everyone. He rarely used names, except in an official capacity; instead his workmates were Firey, Sammo and Cobber. The woman at the coffee shop was Sugar, her brother the cook Hot Stuff. His landlady, living downstairs from him was Beez (short for Beezelbub, at which she rolled her eyes and reminded him Tuesday was lasagne night and he’d need to come and get it while it was hot).

In a strange kind of way, Greg felt like he wasn’t so much searching for his soulmate as honouring his parents and what they’d had. Not everyone agreed, though.

“Seriously, mate,” Chippy had said one night after work, “some people think it’s a bit weird.”

Greg shrugged. “What do I care? It’s nice, isn’t it, to have a special name?”

“So you’re not looking for your soulmate?” Chippy asked.

“No,” Greg said, tucking the truth away under a sip from his pint. “I mean, I’d stop if someone told me I’d called them the right thing, and that hasn’t happened.” He tried to explain it. “I just…it started as a bit of a joke, I think, when I was a kid. And I never really stopped.” He shrugged. “More of a habit now, the right name just clicks in my head.”

What he didn’t say – what he thought Chippy’s shrewd and rather less drunk gaze might have seen – is that now, on the far side of his thirty-fifth birthday, Greg was starting to think he’d never find his soulmate. That scenario was increasingly common, between people settling for the wrong person, dying before finding them, or refusing to acknowledge when they heard the right word.

Another decade – or more – and Greg’s habit had died away with his promotions. It wasn’t quite right for a Detective Inspector to call his subordinates by nicknames, and he’d made a concerted effort to keep himself to surnames and ranks. The part of his brain that decided on nicknames was still active, though, and privately, Greg knew those in his team as Razor, Johnny Cash and Hops.

He hoped he never called them that on purpose.

Sherlock was always Sherlock, surprisingly enough; the words Greg used to describe him could not in all good consciousness be called ‘affectionate’, muttered under his breath as they tended to be. He did find a name for the Army doctor that showed up a few years later, but Doc was hardly inventive, and since John didn’t react, Greg figured he was safe enough using it out loud.

The brother, though…that was a different story.

Mycroft was only ‘Sherlock’s brother’ once, the first time he showed up at a scene and invited Greg into his nondescript black car. The tone was mild but broached no arguments, and Greg raised one eyebrow before calling for his Sergeant.

“I’ll be out for a bit,” he said to her.

“Of course you will,” she replied, her sharp tongue reminding Greg why he’d branded her ‘Razor’ in the first place.

An hour later – in which Mycroft tried to make Greg do what he wanted and Greg pushed back with amusement and a flat-out refusal to be manipulated – they parted ways. Greg blinked as the car disappeared down the street, his heart thumping. He wondered if he’d ever see that man again.

Automatically, he wondered what the nickname would be.

It didn’t take long, a single word rising in his mind. It was…okay. It fit, of course, but it still wasn’t quite…right. Greg tried it on, rolling the single syllable around in his mouth over the next couple of days, wondering what was wrong. This didn’t generally happen; he met someone, spent a little time with them, and a name emerged. This time, it didn’t sit quite right, and he couldn’t figure out why.

“Leave it alone,” Greg muttered to himself. He had no idea when Mycroft would show up again, but it would probably be soon, and surely a little more time would make the name clear.

Greg couldn’t be more wrong.

The next year or so were maddening. Mycroft showed up with increasing regularity, until he and Greg had almost a standing agreement. The first Friday of the month, a black car would arrive and take Greg to Mycroft’s club. They would talk about Sherlock to begin, but then the conversation would veer away and the remaining hours would pass comfortably and for Greg, quite pleasurably. No matter how many hours they spent, the same nickname was stuck in Greg’s head. He’d considered others, but this was the closest, and yet, it still wasn’t quite right.

It was maddening, knowing he was halfway there, like an itch unable to be scratched. The fact he was looking forward to his time with Mycroft more and more also didn’t help. As the rest of his life fell slowly apart – diet, exercise, drinking, smoking all spiralling a little out of control – seeing Mycroft was increasingly the brightest point in his life. His mind was so often on Mycroft that he was regularly distracted from whatever he was meant to be doing. The dual distractions – the incomplete nickname and the man himself – was proving difficult.

It took months before a resolution finally appeared.

“Hiya,” Greg said. It was February, the cold wind whipping at his scarf and wriggling cold fingers down his neck no matter how carefully he wrapped up. He suppressed a smile, joy writhing through him as he ducked inside. Mycroft was in the car this time, which was unusual; nowadays he generally met Greg at his club. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. He was wrapped up as much as Greg, though his shoulders weren’t hunched quite as high. He leaned over, turning up the heat and directing it to his passenger.

“Ta,” Greg said. “Bloody freezing out there.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said.

Greg settled back. Sometimes Mycroft was like this, barely speaking for the first few minutes. Greg assumed he was wrapping up whatever he’d been doing before Greg arrived; he generally murmured an apology before focussing on their conversation. Most of the time Greg used the seconds to surreptitiously take stock, see how Mycroft looked. Remind himself of the details that might have faded since they’d seen each other.

Try to correct the nickname.

“My apologies,” Mycroft said right on cue, turning to look at Greg. He hesitated, then said carefully, “If you don’t mind…I am in the unusual situation of having no pressing work items this evening. I thought perhaps we might be more comfortable at my home.”

Greg blinked at him. “Sure,” he said automatically. He’d never considered Mycroft’s place before, but if it was more comfortable than the Club, it must be a bloody palace.

“I simply mean we won’t be disturbed,” Mycroft said, reading Greg’s thoughts with the usual disturbing accuracy.

“No problem,” Greg said. He grinned. “Finally realised I’m not a threat, then?”

“I never considered you as such,” Mycroft said. The car pulled up and they stepped out. Greg raised one eyebrow but refrained from commenting on the pristine exterior. Once they were inside, Greg took off his scarf and coat, tucking his gloves in the pocket before giving it to Mycroft to hang up.

“I think I might remember our first meeting,” Greg said, following Mycroft through the entrance to a surprisingly modest kitchen and sitting room. “Pretty sure you wanted to check I wasn’t going to threaten your brother.”

“True,” Mycroft said. “I meant I’ve never considered you a threat to me.”

“Right,” Greg replied. He looked at the dish Mycroft was taking out of the oven. “Did you cook?”

“Much as I would like to take credit,” Mycroft said, “I did not.”

The lasagne was delicious, though Mycroft barely ate any; his plate was mainly filled with the steamed vegetables and salad. Their conversation meandered along the usual path, thought Greg noticed they didn’t mention Sherlock at all. What was the point of this evening, if Mycroft wasn’t going to check up on his brother? There was music too, which was unusual; a compilation of jazz tracks, some traditional and some instrumental arrangements of songs he recognised. Definitely different to the previous evenings.

When they’d finished eating, Greg sat back, taking his wine glass. “So,” he said, biting back the nickname that came to his tongue, “what is this in honour of?”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft asked.

“You haven’t mentioned your brother once,” Greg said. He tried for humour. “So can I assume you’re just a fan of my football stories?”

Mycroft had sat back too, his posture mirroring Greg’s. “Perhaps,” he said. He looked at Greg for a few minutes, and Greg thought a person less used to waiting for someone to speak might have cracked. Enough interviews had given him the skill of sitting in an uncomfortable silence without breaking it, though, so he simply sipped at his wine and held Mycroft’s eyes. He obviously had a reason for this evening, and Greg wanted to know what it was.

“I was wondering,” Mycroft said suddenly, “if you have nicknames for your team at work.”

“Nicknames?” Greg repeated, his heart cranking up at the sudden change of subject. “Why?”

Mycroft shrugged, the flush up his cheeks giving away the import of this question. “From what I understand,” he said delicately, “from your own admissions and my brother’s less than complimentary comments, you are in the habit of deciding on a nickname for everyone in your sphere of influence.”

“My sphere of influence?” Greg repeated.

“Those with whom you interact regularly,” Mycroft explained.

“Right,” Greg said. “Well, yeah, actually I do have. Nicknames for my team, I mean.”

Mycroft looked at him expectantly.

“What, you want to know what they are?” Greg asked. His smile was automatic and disbelieving, but at Mycroft’s hesitant nod, it faded.

“Did you…do you just want the names?” Greg asked. “Or do you want to know why?” For some reason it was important. Was Mycroft idly curious or was there more to this line of questioning?

Mycroft looked at him. “As much as you’re comfortable sharing,” he said.

Greg nodded, his heat suddenly thumping even harder. This was by far the most personal conversation between them, and he felt all of a sudden like he was…on a date. Which was ridiculous, of course. Whatever the reason Mycroft asked him here, it was far more likely to be killing time than anything romantic.

“Sure, okay,” he said. “Lemme see…well, my Sergeant, Sally Donovan,” his face coloured as he realised how silly it sounded to say out loud, “she’s not all that patient. Got quite a sharp tongue when someone’s not up to scratch, which she thinks is always.”

He paused.

“Do not feel like you have to share,” Mycroft said courteously.

“You wouldn’t have asked if you didn’t want to know,” Greg replied. He took a deep breath. “Razor. I think of her as Razor.”

Mycroft nodded. “And the others?” he asked.

“Johnny Cash,” Greg admitted, “Anderson, one of the forensic guys. He’s a pain in the arse.”

Mycroft looked puzzled. “I’m not familiar with the reference, I’m sorry.”

“Ring of Fire?” Greg offered.

“No,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg felt his face flame as he realised he’d have to spell it out. “Christ…Johnny Cash is a singer, had a famous song called ‘Ring of Fire’, and since this guy’s a pain in the arse…”

“Thank you,” Mycroft interrupted, raising one hand, “No further explanation is necessary.”

Greg grinned a little, relaxing. “Hops brews his own beer,” he said, “and he smells like it, quite frankly.”

“Fair enough,” Mycroft said. He was looking at Greg consideringly. As though he was weighing up the wisdom of asking the next question.

“What?” Greg asked. “Why did you want to know?”

Mycroft shrugged, but it was an action to deflect a question whose answer was important. More important than someone would care to admit, in Greg’s experience. He stared at Mycroft until he answered, hoping his nervous pulse wasn’t audible.

“I felt knowing some of your nicknames might give me an insight into your thought process,” Mycroft admitted.

Greg blinked at him. “You wanted to get to know me better?”

Mycroft nodded.

“Okay,” Greg said blankly, still processing the odd way Mycroft had gone about it. It was overlaid with a fizz of excitement at the idea. Mycroft want to know him better? What did that mean, then?

“I can tell you some others, if you want,” Greg found himself saying.

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied, startled out of his thoughts by the offer. “Shall we retired to the sofa?”

“Sure,” Greg said. “Let’s bring dessert, though.”

Mycroft picked up the individual serves of ice-cream someone had portioned for them and passed one to Greg. The bowl was still cold from where it had been sitting in the freezer; the ice-cream had started melting a little while they’d eaten their mains.

“Some of them are obvious,” Greg said as they settled on the sofa. “I’ve been doing it since I was a kid. Since I knew about soulmarks.” Mycroft shifted uncomfortably at the mention, and Greg stored that reaction away. “Anyway, it became automatic. Some are more obvious than others, but they all just…come to me. And they fit, somehow.” He ignored the exception, sitting across from him playing with – and hardly eating – a bowl of excellent chocolate ice-cream.

“Um, at the Academy there was Firey, he was a redhead,” Greg said, smiling at the memory, “and Sammo’s parents named her Samantha Samuelson.” Mycroft winced. “I know, she never really lived that down. Let me see…oh yes, Cobber was Australian born, played up the accent for the girls, not that it worked.”

Greg grinned, then shrugged self-consciously. “My landlady was Beez, short for Beezelbub, because she was far lovelier than my friends warned me landladies should be. Chippy grew up over a fish and chip shop and hated hot chips.”

“Might I ask,” Greg’s heart pounded until Mycroft finished his spoonful, “if my brother and his flatmate have nicknames?”

Greg grinned. “Your brother,” he said, “seems to be the sole exception to the ‘everyone’ rule. No matter what I try, it doesn’t stick. Mostly because I keep changing my mind depending on how irritating or brilliant he’s being on any given day.”

Mycroft smirked. “Are the two mutually exclusive?”

“No,” Greg replied, “but the ratio varies.” They grinned at each other, a long beat passing as Greg considered how this moment would look. Sitting on the sofa together, Greg turned sideways with one leg bent, eating ice-cream and smiling at each other.

As if this wasn’t a date.

“And John?” Mycroft asked.

Greg shrugged. “Doc,” he said. “I know, it’s kind of boring,” he said when Mycroft’s expectant expression fell. “But it fits, I can’t help it, and he doesn’t seem to mind when I use it.”

“I often wonder,” Mycroft said, slowly swirling his spoon through the half melted ice-cream in his bowl, “if people with a commonly conferred nickname, such as Doc, would have a,” Greg was certain there was a pause here, “soulmark of a different word.”

Greg blinked at him. “I’d say they would,” he said carefully. “I mean, if mine was ‘Chief’ I’d have no idea who it was. Dozens of people call me that.”

Mycroft nodded, eyes on his bowl. Greg started watching the bowl, but his eyes were drawn to Mycroft’s long fingers, elegantly guiding the spoon on a lazy figure eight around the interior. It was mesmerising, he thought, and the natural extension was wondering how those fingers would feel trailing down his throat…across his shoulder…along his ribs…

Where his soulmark lay.

Greg blinked, pulling his eyes away. Where had that come from? Must have been from Mycroft bringing it up, he thought to himself.

Yeah.

“If I might be so bold,” Mycroft said, but he stopped. He placed his bowl on the table beside him, turning as far as he could on the sofa without bending one knee as Greg was doing. “You said earlier my brother was the sole exception to the ‘everyone’ rule.”

Greg frowned before he realised what Mycroft was saying.

Bollocks. He’d walked himself into that one, hadn’t he?

“Yes,” he admitted, feeling colour come to him. He looked at Mycroft, still frowning as the nickname rolled through his head. It wasn’t quite right, and he was frustrated.

“Look I know it’s weird, and I just said that the nicknames come to me, and that they always fit, but yours doesn’t.” Greg frowned. “I don’t know why, but I don’t want to tell you until it’s right.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied immediately.

They fell into silence, Greg’s mind whirring for long moments as he absently ate his ice-cream, watching Mycroft not eat his own serve. As he thought – and his eyes glanced up to meet Mycroft’s – the music changed. It was a single piano, the notes unfamiliar as the pianist played with the melody before settling into a tune. When it reached a familiar section, Greg’s brain automatically filled in the lyrics.

_Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone._

_No sunshine._

_Sunshine._

With a gasp, the nickname morphed in Greg’s head with the click he associated with the right fit. Finally, he’d found the missing detail that made the nickname fit perfectly. All because of that song. Of course, he could never actually share it with Mycroft, and therein lay the issue.

“Oh,” he whispered.

The play of expression on Mycroft’s face told Greg he knew immediately what happened. Mycroft was sitting opposite him on the sofa, looking at him with a mixture of expectation and trepidation. Greg knew he could decline to answer the unasked question and Mycroft wouldn’t push it, but he would be crossing one hell of a line to tell him the phrase now pulsing through his veins.

He swallowed hard. “Sorry,” he said. “I just…”

“If you are concerned I will be offended,” Mycroft said, “please allow me to ease your mind. I have been on the receiving end of a number of unflattering assessments over the years. I am quite used to them.”

“That’s not it,” Greg replied awkwardly. “Look, I know this is going to sound weird, but…is this a date?”

The words spilled out, less careful that he would have liked, but he had no time or space in his brain to craft something more delicate. Carefully, he deposited his bowl on the table, Mycroft following his lead.

Mycroft’s face flushed again, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod. “I had no intention of anything untoward,” he whispered. “I…I enjoy your company, Gregory. I was hoping we might be able to do so on a more personal level. If that was something you might be agreeable to.”

“Agreeable to?” Greg repeated. His brain seemed to be on some kind of bypass, because he blurted, “Does that mean you wouldn’t mind if I kissed you?”

Mycroft’s eyes widened, but he shook his head, and the catch in his breath was audible when Greg slid across the sofa and practically into his lap. Greg took a second to check, eyes meeting Mycroft’s before cupping his face with one hand and kissing him. This was no hesitant gentle peck; the relief after such a strange evening was palpable, and when Mycroft kissed him back, Greg groaned, under no illusions of where he wanted this to go.

As he reached for Mycroft’s shirttails, those hands, long and slender that he’d dreamed about, covered his own, preventing them doing what they were trying to do.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said, blushing, scrambling away. “I would prefer we taking things slowly.” His expression was resigned as he met Greg’s eyes. “I understand if that’s something you’d rather not-”

Greg stopped him, one finger settling on his mouth until the words stopped. “It’s fine,” he said. “Got myself a bit carried away there.” He leaned forward, kissing Mycroft gently until he felt the tense muscles relax.

“Thank you,” Mycroft whispered.

Greg kept kissing him, keeping it light even though he yearned to press closer.

“I don’t,” Mycroft started, tilting his head as Greg wandered along his jaw, unable to help himself. Greg was restraining himself. Every second could be the last, the moment Mycroft’s hand pressed him back, so he savoured each and every press of his mouth.

“My soulmark is…extensive,” Mycroft explained, his voice growing breathless. “I don’t…it is an unusual phrase. Not one generally associated with me…it has proved amusing in the past.”

Greg snorted. “You think yours is,” he said. Carefully he scraped his teeth along Mycroft’s jaw, feeling Mycroft’s fingers clench against his biceps. “Should see mine.” He kissed a constellation of freckles before adding, “Jeez, I copped it at the Academy.”

Mycroft gasped at the touch, the next few moments filled only with heavy breathing. It was taking more and more of his self-control to keep his hands to himself. Christ, Mycroft had no idea how delicious he sounded, looked, tasted…

“Is that an offer?”

When the words – and their meaning – finally made it past the pulse thundering in Greg’s ears, he groaned. “If you want,” he panted. “But no laughing.”

“Of course not,” Mycroft replied. “I am not entirely sure this is actually happening, so you would be easily able to convince me it is a dream.”

Greg stilled, his lips resting below Mycroft’s ear. He knew what he wanted to say – but was it a step too far? Carefully, he raised his hands, resting them over Mycroft’s chest. There were so many layers of fabric between his skin and Mycroft’s, and he yearned to delve underneath them.

“Mycroft,” Greg said, fingers splayed over his chest, “I have a long, long list of places I want to kiss you. Places on your skin I need to leave my mark, so you know I was really there. You’ll see the mark and remember what it felt like and you’ll know it was real.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft groaned, tilting his head so Greg could reach a fraction more skin. He allowed his mouth to wander for a moment before he continued.

“Oh yes,” he breathed, throwing caution to the wind, “So many ways to explore you…to make you squirm as I lick you all over, and maybe if you’re very good, you can fuck me.”

“Jesus,” Mycroft gasped, bucking up into Greg. “You are…hellion…”

Greg froze. The next words he thought he’d dare to whisper evaporated as his brain skittered to a halt. He could feel his pulse strong in his chest, but the regular thump was strongest over his ribs, right where…

“What did you say?” he whispered. He pulled back, looking at Mycroft, feeling how wide his eyes were. “What did you call me?”

Mycroft sat up, blinking. “Hellion?” he repeated, confused. He looked delicious, Greg thought absently, but that was not as important as the word Mycroft had just uttered. The only thing more important was the sharp heat pulsing through Greg’s ribs, right where his soulmark sat.

“Hellion,” Greg repeated. “You called me hellion.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. “I apologise if-”

“No,” Greg said. With a flash of understanding, he knew. “That’s why…” he whispered, hands pressing into Mycroft’s chest again. Shaking his head, he tried to pull his thoughts into line. He took a deep breath. “That’s why I couldn’t get your nickname,” he said. “Why it was wrong.”

Mycroft frowned. “Why it was wrong?” He looked at Greg. “Is it no longer?”

A torrent of emotions flowed through Greg. Relief, happiness, joy… “No,” he said. “It’s not. I just realised before what was wrong. But I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Why?” Mycroft asked, and the pleading in his voice told Greg now was the moment.

“Because it was too much. Too complicated, and it showed too much. But now,” he took a deep breath. “It doesn’t. Now I can call you,” he took another breath and met Mycroft’s eyes, “Sunshine.” Mycroft’s eyes widened, and Greg continued, “Posh.”

Mycroft’s face drained of colour, and for a second Greg wondered if he was going to pass out.

“Sunshine Posh,” Greg repeated. The phrase sounded much more right than either word; it was a bit of a mouthful, and maybe more complicated than it needed to be, but from Mycroft’s reaction, it was perfect. He swallowed hard, and Greg felt fingers gripping hard into his arm.

“Sunshine Posh,” Mycroft whispered. “Please…tell me why. Tell me why.”

Greg felt his face flush. This was the moment. He had to be honest, excruciating as it might be. “Posh,” he said, finding Mycroft’s hands and easing the fingers out of his forearm, “I think that speaks for itself. That bit came first.”  
“When?” Mycroft whispered.

“Ages ago,” Greg admitted, “but it wasn’t complete. Not until that song, and I realised seeing you, that’s my sunshine. You’re my sunshine.” He shrugged, self-conscious as he tried to explain why it felt so right. “So, Sunshine Posh.” He felt a tingle as he said it again, the combination of words somehow deeply satisfying.

Mycroft swallowed hard, nodding slightly. He clenched Greg’s fingers, then withdrew his hands and reached for his clothes. Greg’s heart pounded as Mycroft pulled his tie loose, then started on his buttons. It took forever, but finally he parted the fabric, slipping shirt, waistcoat and jacket off as one.

“Holy…” Greg breathed.

Mycroft’s torso was covered with text. The words swirled across his skin, following the shape of his body, defining it with the delicate script, shaping the curves of muscle and bone. Just like his mother’s had they pulsed gently as Greg stared at them. They highlighted the slim length of his torso, and Greg found his eyes drawn down, where they disappeared into his waistband. They shifted as Mycroft pulled off the rest of his shirt; the words scrolled down his arms, ending just above his cuffs, and Greg finally realised why Mycroft wore so many layers.

 _Armour_.

“They continue,” Mycroft murmured, his face flushed, “to cover my skin from ankle to collar to cuffs.”

“And they all say the same thing?” Greg asked, mesmerised. “They…they’re pulsing.”

“Sunshine Posh,” Mycroft whispered, his voice strained. “Every one.” He braced himself and looked down. “They’ve never done that before.”

“I think it was me,” Greg murmured. “Hang on…”

He pulled his shirt out of his trousers, pulling it roughly over his head and examining his ribs. “Wow.” He ran his fingers over the letters, fascinated to see the light move under them.

“Just the one?” Mycroft asked, and there was envy in his voice.

“Yes,” Greg replied. “As far as I know.” He looked at Mycroft, raising an eyebrow. “You could check if you want.”

Mycroft’s hand stilled. “Really?” he whispered. “Even with…” he waved one hand at his torso.

“Especially with them,” Greg replied. “Especially with them, Posh.” He grinned. “I think I’ll be shortening it quite often, it’s a bit of a mouthful.” His finger traced a swirl of letters across Mycroft’s chest. “Beautiful, though.”

Mycroft closed his eyes, and Greg was astonished to see a tear spill over, running down his cheek. “I rarely…look at myself,” he admitted. “I never believed anyone would want to see such extensive…”

“Evidence of our connection?” Greg asked. “Beautiful words? Incredible proof that we’re meant to be together?”

“Is that something you might want?” Mycroft asked, voice trembling.

“Well, yeah,” Greg said. “I mean, I know it doesn’t always work out with soulmates, but I reckon we might have a chance. If you wanted to.”

Mycroft swallowed, then nodded. “Very much,” he replied.

“Good,” Greg said, warmth radiating through him at Mycroft’s touch.

_You are my sunshine…_


End file.
